Like Broken Glass
by Ria Rose
Summary: When Tony disappears, the team is devastated. They will do whatever it takes to bring him home. On an off chance of a lead, Barton goes by himself to see if it pans out. It does, in the worst way possible. ***Please heed warnings at the beginning of the story!***
1. Prologue

Title: Like Broken Glass

Rating: M

Author: Ria Rose

Warnings: **Non-con/Rape, graphic depictions of violence** – ***NOT JOKING***

Summary: When Tony disappears, the team is devastated. They will do whatever it takes to bring him home. On an off chance of a lead, Barton goes by himself to see if it pans out. It does, in the worst way possible.

Tags: team as family, **non-con/rape**, angst, hurt/comfort, **graphic**, boys crying, no relationships, this story is very heavy, you have been warned, eventual happy ending.

Author Notes: I know I don't need to say this, since it's in the warnings and tags, but this is a heavy story. Tony goes through it, badly. So does Clint, in a way. The rest of the team gets knocked over later on. I break them. And I'm not even ashamed. Much love to Tiff and Lan for their input, support, and unfailing understanding of my many typos and word vomit. I could not have done this without my Fic Whore and my Little Sparkle.

The story takes place about a year after the events of the first Avengers film; each movie after the fact is considered AU in regards to this story.

Prologue:  
"_Don't tell me the moon is shining; show me the glint of light on broken glass._" -Anton Chekhov

It was deceptively warm for March, but even so, sitting on the top of Avengers Tower, Clint Barton felt a chill in the air. It could be because of the wind that whipped around him, but he was sure it was because exactly one month prior, Anthony Edward Stark has vanished into thin air.

Some thought he finally had enough. He had the money to do it, to rush away and disappear and still live the good life, and some thought his enemies and industrial competition at last caught up to him. The team knew better. Tony had fail-safes in place for the latter, and as for the first...well. His wallet, keys, his phone, and even the sneakers he had on that day still sat by the door of the penthouse, waiting for their owner to retrieve them. Projects were left unfinished, things Tony had put an importance on. A pro-bono green energy school bus; the brand new Starkpad 8 that was due out the next year; Clint's new arrows; Steve's new uniform...

Tony was not one to ever leave anything unfinished.

And then there was the blood on his bed. It wasn't much, but enough to let the other Avengers know: he didn't leave on his own.

They worked tirelessly, chasing any lead, following every clue, but still not a single trace of Tony was anywhere to be found.

"Hey." Clint's head snapped up at the intrusion into his thoughts. It was Natasha. She dropped next to him and slid her arm through his. "He's alive. I know it. And we'll find him."

"I don't see how," he said bitterly. "Fury has us on active duty again. He's given him up for dead."

"Fury's an asshole. But I don't think he's given up either. Clint, he's still sending leads, it's just..." she turned her palm up and gestured to the city around them. "The world doesn't stop just because Tony Stark goes missing."

"It feels like it should."

She smiled sadly. "How far we've come, huh?"

The corners of his lips curled upwards in a brief smile. "Hey, remember that time when we only worried about ourselves and each other before we got sucked into some dysfunctional family of superheroes?" She barked a laugh. "Ah, good times."

"You're an ass."

"You love it."

"Eh." She bumped his shoulder. "So while we are up here, sulking in the roof, want to explain why Bruce had to clean coffee grounds from the kitchen ceiling?"  
He dropped his head. "Sorry about that. Man, I don't know, I have coffee everyday, right? But today, it fucking reminded of him so bad. It was like I could see him standing there, looking all disheveled like he only lets us see, drinking out of that stupid Spongebob mug and doing, I don't know, _something_ to piss off Cap. But then I realized he wasn't there. And it's because _we can't find him_!"

"We're all tired, Clint-"

"That's no excuse!"

She grabbed his face and turned it towards her, "I'm not saying it is! I'm saying we're tired. We're exhausted. And that's not our fault either! Clint, listen to me! None of us have slept properly since he disappeared. We haven't eaten right, we are running ourselves into an early grave. Give yourself some god damn leeway!"

He was quiet for a moment. "I can't. And you can't either. Neither can the others. Not until we find him, Nat. What's the use of fucking lying about it?" He stood up. "Come on, I should help Bruce clean up the coffee."

"Yeah, you should. And apologize to Jarvis, I think you scared him."

"Right, I'll get right on that." He chuckled, rolling his eyes. Sometimes, Nat saw right through him.

"We're not complete until he comes back. You don't think I know that, Clint?"

Clint groaned and rubbed his tired eyes, "Nat, I know that, okay? I know. I'm just..."

"Petulant?"

"How old are you?"  
"Twelve."

He made a face at her. "We just need to find him so we can all get some damn sleep." He said as he led her back inside. They were quiet as they rode the elevator down to the common room. When the doors opened, he spoke over his shoulder as he walked into the kitchen, "I just need to know if he's okay. I want him home."

She opened her mouth to answer, but Bruce beat her to it. "We all do. Even the Other Guy." He handed Clint a mop and looked pointedly at the mess.

Steve sat at the counter, nursing his tea. Clint didn't think it was possible for the super-soldier, but there were bags under his eyes. He knew Thor was in the living room by the light flickering off the TV. The few moments they had to themselves, he watched Tony's favorite movies to cope.

"Do you think he's hurt?" Steve asked. "Do you think he's okay?" The innocence in his voice almost shattered Clint. God, that hurt to hear from Steve. But they were all worn down, rubbed weary like an over used step, after years of people trotting up and down, it starts to warp, cement eroding away, twisting it's once perfect geometric shape into something slumped and old.

Strange how they never felt overused until they lost one of their own. And it wasn't because of being a member down, it was because Tony, like that damned arc reactor in his chest, somehow shone a light upon them no matter how dark it got. He knew how to make them laugh, how to make them forget, even if just for a moment.

Outside, the moon was rising. Lonely in the sky and casting shadows upon the city.

Clint kicked at a few coffee grounds. They couldn't go on like this. They missed him. They were worried about him. They needed to find him before they all burst like dying stars, unable to handle the weight of not only being heroes, but the crushing reality that someone they loved was gone. It fucked with their heads, turning on anxieties they didn't know were there, and it smashed into their lives like a bulldozer.

He thought of all the people he had met in life who had lost loved ones. He hadn't felt that feeling in so long; he could barely remember it, but with Tony gone...the pressure in his chest never eased. He didn't know how they did it, how they got up each day and faced their lives minus one. How they managed to move on, become happy again. Be okay.

It made no sense to him. It made no sense to any of them.

They were stuck. And until Tony was home, they couldn't move, even if they tried to. Life was sludge and they barely got through it.

Clint never knew the true meaning of empty until that moment. And he wished beyond anything that he could step back into ignorance.

But the TV still flickered. And Steve still swirled his tea. Clint still got angry at stupid things and somehow, the world continued to revolved around the sun, despite it being so much darker with Tony Stark gone.

* * *

Please read and review! I'm trying to figure out the formatting of these websites, so please bear with me as I correct things.


	2. Chapter 1

Chapter One

The man in front of him looked too tanned to be so blond. Clint knew him from articles in the newspaper: Russell Davin. Cartel leader. Bastard. And his current captor. With hair almost white and eyes that looked dead. When he was unceremoniously dumped in front of him, his eyes are what caught the archer's attention first. Watery, almost pink, maybe once they were blue, but now they looked like dead fish. It was offsetting against the burnt skin.

And Davin spent far too much time not speaking and just _looking _at Clint. It made his skin crawl.

What sunk Clint's heart the most is that he took off without letting anyone know. Unless they were able to discern exactly what Clint had from the research on his desk, he was royally screwed. He knew scouring over the pictures with a magnifying glass was not something they would immediately jump to, and Clint cursed his recklessness of seeing what he saw and rushing off to confirm it. It was a rookie mistake. But then again, the whole team had been running on fumes, wrecked with worry, anxiety, and regret. None of them had been thinking clearly.

_"Davin has a new pet." The woman had said to her partner, as per usual ignoring the help which in this case was Clint disguised as a waiter. "He's rather beautiful, untamed, like Davin likes them. You've seen him." She smirked and lifted the glass Clint has just handed her to her lips. "You could say he's built like he's made of iron." She laughed then, and the man she was with chuckled in understanding._

_"So that's what happened to him. Davin has good tastes."_

It had taken every connection he had with the FBI to get the surveillance photos. Davin hadn't been in the country in two months. In fact, he had left the day after Tony disappeared. That was too much of a coincidence.

Clint was aware they were grasping at straws at this point. Their missing teammate was like a rather large mass suffocating them each day. He wasn't there, but in so many ways he was. Steve had said they would never stop looking for him, but as the days turned into weeks turned into months, hope was dwindling. So, when Clint overheard that conversation on a different retcon mission, he set to work right away. But he kept it to himself. Instilling false hope was dangerous. The woman may have meant someone else entirely, but the grainy figure being carried into Davin's personal jet looked too familiar. Clint needed to know for sure. It was only supposed to be surveillance. He wasn't supposed to get caught.

"You've arrived at a rather opportune time, Agent Barton." Davin finally said, after he seemed to have looked his fill. "I'd be worried about the other Avengers, but seeing as you're alone, and hearing from my sources that the others are busy with other things leads me to believe that they have no idea where you are." His voice was oily and slick.

Well, fuck. Clint said nothing. He kept his face blank, not wanting to reveal a single thing.

"You see," Davin spoke again, "we had an unfortunate incident yesterday with my beautiful pet. His previous caretaker was getting too, how would you say, handsy." He raised a sardonic eyebrow. "That is not allowed, you understand. And being _who you are_, I don't think I'll have any issue with you trying to fuck my Luna."

_Fuck his Luna?_ Clint was here to find Tony; that was his mission, but if someone else was being kept here instead, he wasn't about to leave them either. And if him being an Avenger meant this sick bastard thought he was trustworthy enough not to try to, ugh, fuck his pet, he'd use any in he could.

Finding Tony was a priority—always would be!-but leaving another innocent to this man wasn't an option. Tony would want him to help. It also didn't look like he had much of a choice at the moment.

"You know, Agent Barton, many would say that the most beautiful man in the world is your friend Steven." Clint's heart clenched at the mention of his friend, safe back in New York. "I would disagree. I know quite a few who would, actually." He paused, studying Clint's face again for a moment. "No, I believe the most beautiful man, the most beautiful _person_, is my Luna. As beautiful as the moon. At once dark and light. I have always thought so, since the first time I saw him. I knew I had to have him. And I get what I want, Agent Barton. Do you understand?"

Clint sucked in a breath and nodded. His face still devoid of emotion. He knew he would not get away without answering.

"Juan here will dress you and let you know your duties. Do not disappoint me. The previous caretaker met his end rather amusingly." He flipped his hand nonchalantly, "I'd hate to have to kill one of earth's heroes and all that."

Still, Clint remained silent. He wasn't giving this prick any information if he could help it. But for one moment, he let his face show his loathing. Davin only smirked in response.

"Juan. Take him."

Rough hands grabbed Clint from behind, under his arms, and steered him. The man was easily 6'5 and obviously not one to trifle with. Clint went quietly. He took in every corridor in the estate, carefully studying windows, the landscape outside, anything that could help him when it was time to escape.

Juan pushed him into a room; it was the laundry, he noted. Racks of clothing lined the walls and four industrial strength washers and dryers hummed away at the other end.

"You will wear these. There are two sets, to be washed every night. Master is rather keen on cleanliness." It was a pair of beige linen pants and a white linen shirt. "Change now."

Not seeing much of a choice, Clint removed his uniform, his stomach turning at the way the man leered at him. When dressed, Juan handed him a pair of brown leather sandals.

"You are responsible for their upkeep. Now, follow me."

He wished he knew where they hid his weapons, wished fiercely that he was at least able to keep the small knife in his boot. But that lay in a discarded pile on the floor of the room they had just left. Pity. That was a gift from Natasha.

The corridor Juan led him down was just as long and massive as the others. The private island off the coast of South America lush with land and beauty and large enough to fit the estate, a landing strip, and a rush of vegetation. Clint saw the white sandy beaches through the windows and mulled over the irony of being captive in such a gorgeous place.

"Your duties are simple. You will feed him, bathe him, exercise him, prep him, and if needed, apply medical care. He is to be ready by 7:45 in the evening, Tuesdays through Saturday. Sundays no later than 11 in the morning. Mondays, he has off." Juan looked disappointed at that. "If needed, you will retrieve him after the fact." They stopped outside of a large double door, white, with intricate carvings and many, many locks. "Otherwise, you do not leave these rooms unless it is for his exercise or his required time in the sun. There is a pallet in there for you to sleep on." Keys, codes, combinations...Clint knew without asking that this Luna was caged in a way that made no mistakes. "There are cameras on the balcony and no way to climb down. Unless you fancy a fourth story drop onto rocks." He couldn't help it, Clint made a face at that. "Also, just so we're clear: his name is Luna. When these are closed you call him what you want. But if anyone else is around, you will refer to him as Luna. Beautiful Luna. Do you understand your duties?"

The archer nodded. And the doors were opened.

"Enjoy your stay." The slam that echoed behind him made Clint jump about a foot in the air, though he'd never admit it, and the sounds of the locks being applied turned his stomach sour.

In front of him was a large room, shaped like a giant Y. To the right of the fork, a bedroom: king-sized bed, vanity table, love-seat; and to the left a small library. Directly in front of him: a sitting area and wooden table, dressed in white with high-backed wooden chairs. At the center of the Y, another set of double doors stood open and Clint could see the edges of the bathroom. The room had an older air to it, clean, well kept, but classically styled and furnished in what looked like the 1950's Hollywood idea of what a beach estate should look like.

At first, Clint saw no one in the room.

"Is this a joke?" he growled under his breath, his jaw clenching and un-clenching in annoyance. How the fuck was he expected to care for someone—and ultimately save them!-if he couldn't see them? His sharp eyes glanced around the room once more, looking for any detail he may have missed in his first sweep across the space. He measured almost a full minute before movement on the floor by the bed caught his eye. It was a foot being pulled back behind the vanity. Someone was seated on the floor.  
"Uhm, Hello?" his eyes narrowed at the surprised jerk of the foot. Whoever it was had let it shoot back out from behind the vanity in shock. "Hi, I'm Clint?" He didn't really mean for it to sound like question, but Nat had told him too many times to count that he was far too often unsure of his words when he wasn't facing down an assailant.

"Clint?" The voice that answered him nearly jolted his heart into stopping.

"Oh my God," Clint rushed forward and dropped to his knees in front of the man hidden on the floor by the vanity. "Oh my God, Tony!" So many days, weeks, and hours searching for him with nothing but dead end after dead end, and there he was! Clint felt his heart pounding against his chest, hope swelling within him. Alive! Tony was alive!

There was a brief haunted look in the other man's eyes that gave way to a bright spark at seeing Clint. "Its you? It's for real, seriously you?" The book in Tony's hands dropped and clattered to the ground. It was then that Clint noticed that Tony was naked.

"Jesus, what the fuck are they doing to you?" Tony was bound by gold: a solid gold choker on his neck with chains that attached to golden cuffs that fit snugly around his wrists. He was dismayed to see bruising along Tony's arms and neck, and even more horrified to see the shadows of hands around his hips. All at once, it made sense. And Clint's heart shattered at the thought.

His brain, trained as a spy, took in the rest of his friend's appearance quickly. He was tanner than usual-and that was saying something!-his olive skin turned a deep bronze, and along his arms, thighs, and abdomen, detailed brown markings he recognized as henna. They had shaved his face clean-and wasn't that jarring to see? Tony without his trademark goatee. On his upper arms were two more gold cuffs, though these were not chained to anything, and his toes each had a different yet individually elegant toe rings on them. His ankles were wrapped in several exquisite gold and diamond anklets.

What disturbed Clint most was the piercings. They had lined earrings up his earlobes, his nipples held gold hoops, a small diamond was placed in his nose, and his poor outtie belly button held a diamond and gold ring in it. Clint visibly grimaced when he saw the stud on his penis, it made him feel sick to think of that forced on him; Tony hated the idea of piercings on himself. He wasn't too keen on body modification to begin with; it was one of the reasons the arc reactor still bothered him.  
Clint's eyes made their way back up to the reactor. The freaks had drawn henna around it, like it was part of the artwork and not something that kept Tony alive out of necessity.

"They like to decorate me." Tony said softly, in answer to Clint's once over. "Where are the others?"

Clint, for the first time in a long time, felt tears spring to his eyes. Tony thought this was a rescue mission. God, did he feel so incredibly stupid! Why in God's name had he not told the others? It could have been as simple as a text message, a note, fucking smoke signals! Anything! He looked down, ashamed at his irresponsibility. _Be truthful_, Clint thought, _he deserves that much._ "I'm alone." He felt the gut punch of having to admit it. "I'm so sorry, Tones," _So unbelievably sorry! "_I fucked up, dude."

Tony nodded curtly, the haunted look seeping back into his wide brown eyes. The silence settled around them for a moment, like dust after an earthquake, before Tony spoke again. "What happened?"

"We've been looking for you for so long, it was a long shot-there were so many!-but we went after every one; I was desperate to find anything that could lead us to you. Oh God, Tony, I screwed up, man, I truly fucked up. I never meant to be captured. And the others...I didn't tell them what I was doing. It was so, so stupid, Tones. I'm sorry, but we're alone." his mind grasped for anything to say to remove the look of despair in Tony's eyes, a joke to crack, something to say that wasn't apologies, or bad news delivered by one of the people Tony had faith in rescuing him. But his mind came up empty, like a glass already drunk turned upside down, the sad remains of his thought process dripping down the sides and falling to the floor, just waiting to be mopped up.

Tony swallowed. "Okay. Okay. Then you need to listen to me." Clint jerked at the serious tone.

"Tony?"

"No, you have to listen! They've made you my new caretaker, I can tell by the outfit. I should have noticed right away, but..." He trailed off and shook his head, returning to his patented 'listen to me' voice. "Do not-Clint are you listening?-do not try to escape."

"Tony!"

"No, it's my turn to speak!" Tony sounded panicked, his eyes darted around the room, as if waiting for someone to descend on them in an attack. "There is no way off this island that doesn't involve floating away as fish food. Do you hear me? I tried." Tony twisted so Clint could see his back, it was marred with white scars, recently healed. "This is what I got for trying. Twenty-five whips. They won't kill me. Davin is obsessed with me. But they will-pay attention here, buddy!-_they will kill you_."

Clint didn't realize it, but he was holding his breath. He released it with a whoosh. "Tony, we have to get out of here."

"And we will. If you found me, the others will as well. But for right now, Clint, I'm serious here, for right now you do as they say. No matter what. You stay alive so we can leave this fucking island together. Capiche?" He paused. "I'm a fucking genius, Barton. You think I haven't done the math? It's impossible."

Clint licked his lips in worry, sitting back on his heels. "Are you sure?" Tony's intellect was second to none he knew. If a legitimate genius couldn't find a way off the island, what hope did someone like Clint have?

"I'm fucking positive. I told you: they won't kill me. But yesterday," he shivered at a memory Clint could not for the life of him see, "Sam looked at me the wrong way and they fucking sliced his head off."

"Sam...Sam was your old caretaker?"

"Yes. And I got to watch as his head fell to the floor and got a front row seat from the balcony as they tossed him in the ocean." With this, Tony grabbed Clint's arms as best he could with his wrists shackled together. "I can't, I won't...I refuse to see them do that to you. Follow the rules. All of them."

"Fucking hell."

Tony looked away then. "It's not...I know it's asking a lot. But I need you, Clint. I'm counting on you as well. If it's not done right...fuck. Clint, it hurts so fucking bad."

Clint felt his stomach twist. "What do you mean?"

"What did they tell you? What did they say your duties were?"

"Uhm, feed you, bathe you, exercise you, prep-oh Jesus Christmas."

Tony gave him a pleading look. "I'm sorry. But if you don't, God..." he dug the heels of his hands into his eyes. The chains clanked quietly.

"No, no, Tony, you listen now. I'll do whatever it takes to make it easier on you. To make sure you don't hurt as much." _To make sure they don't hurt you so badly when they rape you that you can never be fully whole again_. Saying that word, he just didn't think he could do it out loud. Even thinking it set his teeth on edge.

Tony nodded, letting his hands drop. He glanced at the clock. "It's 5:30." He said softly. "Marietta will be in with dinner very soon. Afterwards..."He took a deep breath. "Afterwards, I need to bathe and you...you have to prep me." Tony wiped at his eyes and Clint pretended not to notice. "They're very punctual." He said the last with a bitter resentment to his voice.

"Okay, when the time comes, just, you know, walk me through it."

Another nod. "Clint," Tony started softly, "I'm glad it's you." He dropped his eyes. "I miss all of you so much. I'm sorry they killed Sam, he was a nice guy, but I'm happier to see you." His eyes lifted, they were shining with his tears and as Clint watched, they slowly started to roll down his cheeks. "We're going to get out of here. I have to remember that. We're going to get home and everything is going to be okay, right? It's all going to be perfectly fine. Tell me, please," Tony grabbed Clint's hands again, this time, much tighter than before. The archer could feel the desperation radiate through to his own body. "Tell me that it's all going to be all right." The pleading in Tony's voice twisted something deep inside Clint. It hurt to move for a moment, his chest felt like it was compressing in on itself.

He found his own breath hitching. The pain he saw on the genius' face was devastating. Just the idea that Tony was being kept as a pet, forcefully raped night after night...It infuriated him and it killed him inside. How could he tell Tony that everything was going to be okay when he could already tell that his friend was changed from it? How could he lie and act like everything would go back to normal when Tony looked so haunted. There was no defiance left, just sagging acceptance to being used as a monster's sex toy.

But Clint had to remind himself that it had been two months. Lesser men would have broken already. At least Tony still had hope.

"Yeah, man," Clint forced himself to smile, "we're going to be just fine, Tones. You'll see. Better start thinking of what movie you want—Hey! Natasha might even let you pick two. You could force her to watch some cheesy ass crap, a chick-flick or something, like Notting Hill. You love that movie!" He felt almost cruel; it was like he was lying to Tony. But Clint would anything for his team. They knew that, he knew that... He would do anything to keep Tony from completely falling apart on him. He would do it for all of them, and wasn't that just peachy? A year ago, Clint would have never thought he would do anything for anyone else, except for maybe Natasha.

"Think Steve will make his popcorn?" Tony's smile was as haunted as his eyes. "You .know, the one with the chocolate drizzle on it?"

"Hell yeah. And Bruce will make empanadas. The kind you like, with those green chilies. You know he can't say no to you when you ask for his cooking!" Tony leaned forward then, moving his body so he could curl up against Clint's chest, desperate for contact that didn't hurt him. Clint sat back on his bottom, slowly wrapping his arms around the smaller man and pressing his head into Tony's shoulder. He was surprised at how cold Tony's skin felt. With his face hidden, he let a few tears leak out. Just a few, to release some of the anguish that was pressing in his mind.

Tony lay quietly against his chest for a few minutes, listening to Clint's heartbeat. He shuddered, causing the archer to hold him tighter, but it was all right: Clint wouldn't hurt him. He knew that. Not like _they_ did. Clint would keep him safe...safe like home. The tower, The common room, his teammates taking up space in his life in the best way. Safe like that.

When he spoke again, his voice was cracked and broken. "I want to go home."

Clint closed his eyes. "I know, Tony. I know."

* * *

**Poor Tony B-R-O-K-E-N! Just how i like him because i get to put him back together again. It starts getting heavier from here on out, but I hope you all enjoy! Please let me know by reviewing!**


	3. Chapter 2

**AN: Please be aware that some of the detailing in this chapter may be a bit much for certain people. Please use caution when reading. **

Clint didn't realize just how hungry he was until the door opened and the smell of food accosted him. Had it really been more than a day since he last ate? He knew he had gone longer, had to in some situations, but something about the emotional fuckery he was dealing with made him ravenous.

He was still holding the genius when the woman Tony had called Marietta entered, pushing a silver cart. On it sat two trays, a decanter, two glass cups, and silverware. She made quick work of setting the table, barely pausing to glance at Clint as Tony finally pulled away from him and stood.

"Please," Tony spoke, his head low and his body submissive, "tell the master I am thankful for this meal."

"I will." Clint heard a Brazilian accent. The woman, fifties, graying hair, short but sturdy, looked up at Tony, her face displaying an emotion Clint couldn't quite catch. "Will you be needing anything else, Beautiful Luna?"

It sounded rehearsed and the archer realized this exchange was probably the same every time she brought in meals. Clint would go as far as to guess the other...servants...slaves? were forced to refer to Tony as Beautiful Luna as well. It honestly sickened him, the extent Davin had gone.

"No, ma'am. I need no more than what my master has thus provided me."

Clint almost mocked gagged, would have too, if the implication of how orchestrated this was didn't make him legitimately feel like vomiting. It was a script. Tony didn't talk like that. No one spoke like that.

She turned her attention to Clint. "For you to learn, Caretaker, this is where you say: 'Our master provides and cares for Beautiful Luna.'" She looked at him expectantly.

"Oh, uh...Our master provides and cares for Beautiful Luna."

"Good. Eat well. Rest. Master looks forward to your company." She bowed low and backed out of the room.

"What the actual fuck," Clint whispered.

Tony was already sitting at the table. "Just eat, Barton," and it sounded so much like the old Tony that Clint had to gather himself quickly before his eyes watered again.

_'Not cool, Clint. Keep it together, man. You were trained for shit like this. It shouldn't be affecting you.'_ But it did bother him. It bothered him so immensely because this was Tony fucking Stark. Not just genius, billionaire, playboy, philanthropist, not just Iron Man, but his friend.

So Clint sat. Marietta had already lifted the covers off the dishes, and in front of him was some species of fish, perfectly cooked, and steamed vegetables. The decanter held mineral water only, and two small fruit tarts sat on dainty plates next to their salad bowls.

"Okay, bro, listen, I don't remember the last time I ate healthy shit like this, my body may reject it." Clint was hoping to coax a smile out of Tony. It worked. The genius' lips spread in a grin, and he gave a light chuckle. Even if it didn't fully reach his eyes, it was a start.

Tony made a face, one so familiar it almost hurt. He quirked his mouth and raised his eyebrows, telltale sarcastic Tony. "Gotta keep Beautiful Luna healthy."

It wasn't difficult to see that Tony was doing it for Clint, to see him at ease with the situation. And it was so Tony it was almost laughable.

"What's with the script, dude?"

Tony sighed and gave a shrug. "He's a control freak. And not in the haha Steve, please remove the stick from your ass kind." Mentioning his captain made him pull a quick frown, the worry pinching his face. But he recovered fast, doing his best, Clint surmised, at putting on a show to alleviate his concerns. "I don't know if it's a game to him, I don't really know anything. But he has these scripts we have to use, even when no one else is present. And he strikes so much fucking fear...The chef is really good though. You should eat." With that, Tony raised his shackled hands and lifted his fork. "It's a little awkward," he gestured, "but when have you ever seen me not figure out a solution."

_'Right now.'_ Clint thought, _'this fuck head somehow bested you. Bested me.'_ But wisely, he didn't say that. That type of honesty, he knew, would only hurt Tony more in the long run. "That's an annoying sound." He answered instead, meaning the soft clunking of the chains.

"Let's face it, I've made more annoying noises in the year you've known me." Tony gave him a pointed look and Clint realized for the first time just how rehearsed Tony's reactions were. Not just at the estate, but in general. How much of a show did he put on for them? How often did he hide himself to make everyone think he was okay? "You get used to it."

"Right. Any other Shakespearean lines I need to memorize?"

"A few," Tony answered. "But you get some leeway as you learn them. It's not like Davin is always around to hear them."

"And that Beautiful Luna shit, is he for real, man?" Clint finally picked up his fork and speared a carrot.

"Unfortunately." Tony looked down, focusing on his meal. "I hate it. He calls me his moon. Or his beautiful Italian star. Like, get with it, buddy, moon or stars. Can't be both."

Clint paused, considering. "Exactly how obsessed is he with you?"

At that, Tony scoffed. "You have no idea. I'd say he practically worships me if he didn't, you know, control every fucking thing I do and pass me around to his criminal besties like I was nothing more than an inflatable doll bought at a sex shop at three in the morning."

Unable to stop it, Clint grimaced. "So, it's not just him, then?"

Tony dropped his fork on the plate. It hit with a loud clatter. "You should see Sundays. It's a real fucking party then."

He swallowed, but Clint didn't reply. He was wondering about the 11am start on Sundays. The truth, though, was that this trained spy, superhero, and Avenger wanted to stay ignorant just a little longer. At least with ignorance he could playact that this was just another meal in the tower, that Tony wasn't naked and decorated like some weird fetish art project. He could stick his head in the sand. _'Oh, no, someone I have grown to care for deeply isn't being held captive and raped fully against his will! He's not falling to pieces in front of me!' _

If he could just stay in the dark, even for a little longer, to actually celebrate that he had found Tony, alive, after two months of knowing nothing, two months of no sleep, of Zombie Avengers just going through the motions unless they were working on a lead to locate their missing teammate, which they did so vigorously, relentlessly. Detrimentally. Every time the lead didn't pan out. Every time they went back to the tower and saw the dust starting to settle on Tony's unused coffee mug, the fleece blanket he favored that no one else could bear to use in his absence and so it sat, where Tony had left it, on the floor next to the armchair, adjacent to the text Tony was reading, a worn bookmark stuffed between the pages, waiting for its owner to pick up where he had left off. The old and tattered slippers still splayed on the floor by the TV, where the tile in the kitchen met the carpet of the living room. The half-eaten box of rainbow cookies from Tony's favorite Italian bakery, stale now with age, sitting on top of the toaster, the red and white strings from the box flailing gently every time they walked past, like a ghost's hand, gently waving at them from a time long ago when the tower was filled with barks of laughter, sarcasm, and ill-timed jokes that still made them laugh.

But he couldn't pretend it away. That just wasn't possible.

"Each night it's Davin and his three right hands: Juan, Simon, and Miller." Tony paused. "I hate them. Sometimes they don't show, and it's just Davin, or maybe just two of them. Davin is always there even if he doesn't always participate."

"And Sundays?" Clint couldn't seem to get his voice above a whisper.

"That's when he does his business. I'm a bargaining chip. Sometimes it's only five extra men. Sometimes more. Three weeks ago it was fifteen." The haunted look was back, and Tony's breath was becoming ragged. "The only good thing," he gasped out, and Clint heard the panic attack approaching, "was that I got the week off after that. But he-" Tony was struggling to draw air, "he went crazy on Saturday. Having to spend-" Clint was out of his chair in an instant, kneeling beside Tony and gathering him in his arms like it was the most natural thing in the world for him to do. "To spend-"

"Tony, man, Tones, stop, it's okay I get it. Please, don't do this to yourself." Fuck it all, he was openly crying now, and wouldn't Nat get a kick out of that?

So, Davin had to let Tony heal and being without his concubine made him even rougher when he finally was able to take him. And on top of that, Tony still had to face another Sunday.

Tony crumpled into Clint, throwing his shackled arms over his head to hold on and the archer had to brace himself to safely get them to the floor. Great, heaving sobs erupting from the genius as he wept into Clint's neck. "I want to go home, I want to go home!" Tony cried.

And all Clint could do was grasp him tightly and let his own tears flow.

Twenty minutes later, Tony had calmed enough to finish his meal, but even then he kept his head low, his eyes downcast in shame and pain. Clint didn't want to think about him not eating. He needed his strength more than ever and not for the first time that day the archer wondered of the fairness of it all.

When they finished, Marietta returned to gather the empty dishes and dirty silverware. She left a fresh decanter of water on the table with two clean glasses and scurried away without saying anything. Clint briefly mulled over the lack of scripted conversation, but it was most likely because of time. Davin wouldn't want any lingering when he was waiting for his Beautiful Luna.

"So what do we do?" Clint asked, standing shoulder to shoulder with Tony. They were facing the door where Marietta had just left. Tony still had tear tracks on his face, and Clint was sure he had the same.

Tony swallowed. "Bath first. I need help because, well..." his lifted his arms, the chains clanging lightly.

"Yeah, man, yeah, sure. Uh," Clint gestured toward the bathroom. "Lead the way."

Aside from a toilet and large vanity and basin, there was a stand-up shower, and a massive tub. The room was lit by two mounted lights, emitting a hazy glow, and was painted in soft hues of blue and silver. Clint made his way to the tub; he was at a loss but needed Tony to think he could do this, that he could take charge and handle this completely fucked up situation. There were four knobs and Clint blinked.

"Why the fuck are there so many of them?"

He heard a small chuckle behind him, and Tony leaned past to turn on two of them and pull out another. "Hot water," he said, pointing to each in turn, "cold water. Shower head, and stopper."

"Right, yeah, of course. Of course I knew that, man. I mean," he gestured, "Right? I got this." Tony just raised his brows, his lips quirking.

"Have I mentioned I'm glad you're here?" He turned toward the sink, grabbing a toothbrush and making quick work of brushing his teeth. It was almost comical how his left hand dangled below his right. Clint tested the water. The temperature seemed good, but Tony had felt so cold before. He turned the hot water on a little higher.

Tony rinsed his mouth and picked up a container. Clint was confused for all of a second before Tony opened it, scooped thick cream into his fingers, and smeared it on his chin. Of course it wouldn't be regular shaving cream. Davin probably had it imported. Nothing but the best for his Beautiful Luna, unless it meant consent.

"Why did they have you shave? Most people love the, you know," he wiggled his fingers at his own chin.

"Davin likes my face clean."

"Apart from the nose ring." Immediately, Clint regretted saying it. Tony froze, looking lost.

"Even when we go home," he never said if, only when, "I'll still have the scar. I'll look into a mirror and be reminded." Turning towards Clint, Tony spoke in a voice that was at once old and tired, and young and innocent. "It's not going to be okay, is it?"

Clint hated how small he sounded. Tony Stark should never sound small. He was larger than life, despite his tiny frame. "I don't know, man," He answered honestly. "Let's get there first."

Tony nodded in acquiescence and turned back to the mirror. By the time he was done shaving, the tub had been filled. Giving his limited use of his hands, Clint helped him in. He picked up the loofah where it hung and grabbed a bottle of expensive looking body wash.

"Barton, listen." Tony said, once again sounding more like himself. "I'm going to be honest with you. I, er, I start to get a little, I don't know, out there? as the bath finishes." He looked steady into Clint's face. The last stand of a man headed to the gallows. "In the bottom drawer of the dresser in the bedroom, there are toys and lube. You have to use your fingers first. Then work your way up. The better I'm stretched, the less it hurts." Clint tried to swallow around the rock in his throat, how on earth had _that _gotten there? He nodded and Tony continued, "In the top drawer are sprays and creams and paints. He likes the gold one, it goes on my chest, my face...everywhere. The second drawer down is jewelry. Pick whatever you want, he doesn't care what it is, he just wants it on me. Go for the necklaces. The rings bother my hands when I tighten them." Clint didn't have to ask why he was going to be clenching his fists. "The third drawer is wraps. I'm not allowed clothes or shoes. But he likes when I wear sheer wraps around my waist. They don't usually make it back to the room. He buys me more and makes a big show of it, like it's some great gift. Here's a wrap! You can wear it when I rape you!" Tony's voice that had grown steady and sure in his instructions, stuttered to a stop. His hands, which had been gesturing wildly, fell useless into the water.

Clint had no words. So he just lathered up the loofah and began washing Tony's back, careful of the scars, even though they had long healed over. He knew scars could still hurt, years after the fact.

He took his time, wary of the bruises, gently washing the abused skin and doing his absolute best to keep it together. Clint knew he couldn't lose it on Tony. He didn't remember the last time he was so out of control with his emotions, but it was imperative that he was strong for the genius. Tony needed stoic, he needed an oak tree to grip during the storm. He didn't need a mess of emotional displays and confusion.

He could see Tony drawing within himself, his shoulders hunching and his eyes glazing. He was going father and farther away, and Clint couldn't even blame him.

Somehow, he managed to wash Tony's behind and privates without batting an eye. Though he was close to tipping over when the loofah brushed over his rectum and Tony let out a quiet cry of violation, though Clint somehow knew it wasn't directed at him personally.

The towels were lush and soft, a small mercy for Tony as Clint wrapped them around him and carefully dried the tanned skin. "Where do you want...?"

"Bed. It's the most comfortable." Tony sounded miles away. Probably back in New York, Clint thought. Sitting on the couch, stealing popcorn from Thor and arguing the finer details of 80's slasher films with Bruce. That's where Clint would be if the positions were switched.

When Tony laid down, it was with a disturbingly practiced ease. He lay on his stomach, his arms crooked at the elbows and his head pillowed on them. As Clint knelt on the bed with the lube and the toys, Tony bent his knees, opening himself up. The glazed look was still in his eyes, his brain's autopilot taking over.

Clint tried not to look. He tried not to actually see the whipping scars or the hand shaped bruises around his waist. He certainly didn't want to see how his rectum, despite the prepping, still somehow looked abused.

"Are you ready?" Tony didn't answer. So Clint began. His hands shook as he open the lube, but he was surprisingly steady as pushed one finger inside of Tony. He attempted to compartmentalize, to push it back and deal with the situation step by step. Clinical. Steadfast. But the pained sounds Tony made ripped him right back into the moment. Silent tears were dripping down his face, and his body shuddered as Clint worked him open.

As he added a second finger, Tony turned his face and buried it into the bedspread. Clint pulled out. "Tony, man, Tony..." he had to stop talking when his voice hitched. This wasn't right. It was all sorts of wrong. Things like this shouldn't have to happen. People as good as Tony, as good as Clint tried to be...they shouldn't have to face this shit.

"Please," Tony sobbed, "I don't want to hurt. You have to."

Clint looked up. Tony was looking at him over his shoulder, his eyes filled with ghosts and his face flushed with emotion. He steeled himself. Tony needed him.

Adding more lube, he went back with three fingers this time, slowly scissoring and aiding the muscles in relaxing. He touched Tony nowhere else. It didn't seem right.

When he reached for the smallest toy, his hands only stilled for a moment. He pressed his tongue against his teeth, trying to fight the urge to break down. But then Tony cried out when it breached him, and Clint couldn't stop the steam of tears if he tried. He wept silently. With Tony's face sobbing into the blankets, the genius couldn't see. He couldn't witness Clint losing the small modicum of control he had. His body shook with the enclosed sobs, but Tony didn't notice; he was too busy swinging on his own hell.

On and on it went. The toys gradually getting bigger, until the largest one slid easily in and out.

He was done.

"Tony?" But he didn't answer. "Tones? Shit, Tones. This is so fucked, man." Clint crawled up the bed, gathering Tony in his arms and just holding him for a few horrible moments. But a glance at the clock told him it was after 7:15. They didn't have much time. So he let go of Tony and tried to pretend he didn't hear the wail of protest at the loss of comfort.

It was like he wasn't himself. Like he was watching from up above as his hands applied the gold paint, the necklaces, and the sheer wrap. Like he no longer existed because no human being could cope with this fucking shit.

Finished, he stood back, body still shaking.

"It's gonna be all right, man, you hear me? It's going to be-"

There was a loud knock at the door. It was 7:45. It was time.

All Clint could do at this point was watch as Juan entered and picked Tony up, bridal style, and took him away.

**With all the love in my angsty, anxious heart, I beg of you to leave a review if you are enjoying this story. I have six chapters already written in total and I may even update tomorrow if you all would please feed my wounded little ego!**


	4. Chapter 3

**Trigger warnings for this chapter, and honestly all of them, but I'll continue to say it just in case. This chapter deals with rape aftermath, Clint attempting to clean and care for Tony.**

**As usual, thank you to My Fic Whore (Tiffany) and My Little Sparkle (Lan) for all the amazing help and support you've giving me.**

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Clint hadn't realized he had fallen asleep. He jerked awake at the sound of the door opening and sat up, the book he was attempting to read earlier to distract him from what was being done to Tony slowly slid to the floor. It landed with thunk of finality.

Two men had entered, one carrying Tony, and neither was Juan. Clint figured they were Simon and Miller, both were just as massive as Juan and had no trouble manhandling Tony; he followed their movements with his eyes. The one holding his friend was covered in tattoos. Most, Clint recognized, were gang related. The other was bald with a jagged scar down the middle of his head.

The tattooed one placed Tony on the couch and turned towards Clint. "Caretaker, clean him up." And without another word, both left. The door shut with a soft click and the archer couldn't help but find the irony in that.

Clint slowly raised himself from the pallet. He felt like he was walking to his own execution. The back of the couch faced him; he was unable to see Tony until he rounded the edge of it, and when he did, he immediately dropped to knees beside him.

"Oh, Tony." There was no sarcasm or quick witted quip to save Clint from what he was seeing.

He lay—in the fetal position with his back to Clint—trembling visibly; the wrap was gone, discarded somewhere in Davin's haste to have all of him. Tony's wrists and neck were red from the bonds being pulled, there were new, already deepening bruises on his hips, and the gold cream Clint had applied had worn off in most places. Some of it had gathered in certain spots, the dips into his waist, on the back of his knees, puddled with come and sweat...

At the back of his throat, Clint felt vomit. His eyes slowly moved, taking in the sight before him, and when he saw the drops of blood that had slipped down his thighs, he had to hastily stumble to the bathroom to be sick.

None of this was fair. None of this was even remotely fair! But as Clint quickly rinsed his mouth, he knew that even though that thought had popped up often since he first entered the room, it still hadn't changed a single goddamn thing. He had to get it to-fucking-gether! Tony needed him. He needed him to be his stronghold, his pillar, not hiding in the bathroom while come slowly dried on Tony's back and legs and...

Oh, fuck. He was going to be sick again if he kept thinking along those lines.

With as much false bravado as he could muster, Clint turned the faucet on and wetted several washcloths. He wrung them out with more gusto than he intended and needed a second, again, to compose himself. When he next knelt beside Tony, he breathed in deeply, and lightly touched the smaller man's shoulder.

And Tony jerked. Hard. The whimper he let out sent stabs of guilt through Clint's abdomen.

"Hey, hey, dude, it's just me. It's Barton."

Tony finally lifted his head from under his arms and looked back. His eyes were red and puffy but there were no tears. It seemed he had run out of those. "Clint?"

"Yeah, it's me. In all my feathered glory." There was no reaction, no sign that Tony even understood the words he was saying. Clint tried to steady his resolve. "I'm going to clean you up now, okay? Okay." He answered himself. Taking one of the washcloths in hand, he hovered over Tony's backside for a moment before moving to his shoulders and starting there. He was gentle, speaking softly and calmly, letting Tony know everything he was going to do before he did it. Wiping and cleaning what he could, skipping over his bottom and hips to clean his legs, leaning over to get his chest, his face, his stomach, moving him gently to get under his left side, before sitting back on his haunches and contemplating the kindest way to clean the most abused areas on Tony's body.

Nothing stuck out. Nothing about this was going to be easy.

Tossing the dirty washcloths in the laundry bin, he grabbed four more fresh ones and wet them with warm water. When he returned to Tony, he sat on the couch instead of the floor, lifting Tony's legs into his lap. "Hey, Shellhead," he said, using Cap's nickname for him, "just close your eyes, I'll be done as soon as you can say Jackie Robinson." Still, Tony didn't answer.

With steadier hands than he thought possible, Clint lifted his right leg and bent it at the knee. Tony didn't fight him.

He had to go gradually; he had to be as gentle as possible. Rushing would only hurt him, and Clint refused to let that happen. He couldn't add more pain on top of what Tony was already feeling.

It was slow going. The gold that had dripped stuck harder here than other places, and the come that had dried was flaked. Thankfully, there wasn't much blood. As Clint tenderly parted his cheeks, he was relieved to see no tears on the rectum, but that also meant that the blood most likely came from inside him. And wasn't that fantastic?

"I don't usually bleed anymore," Tony spoke at last. His voice was raw. Clint didn't want to think why. He only hummed in response, intent on getting Tony clean and into bed as prompt and humanely as possible. "The fourth drawer. All the medical supplies are in there."

He knew that Tony was coming back to himself, gaining awareness, but that meant he'd probably feel every ounce of hurting, the emotional as well as the physical.

So, Clint hurried his movements as much as he dared without causing Tony any more discomfort. When he finished wiping him clean, he slowly lifted his legs from his lap and stood. "Okay, man, I'll be right back." Just as he said, Clint found the medical supplies in the second to last drawer. It unnerved him that a dresser held no clothes, only items that could be used in a sick sex addiction. And that's what it was, wasn't it? Davin was addicted to Tony. He was obsessed.

The drawer held a first aid kit, needles and thread for suturing-and Clint didn't even want to _think_ about that-plus different creams and ointments, including a bruise cream that the team has used before with good results, and a tub of Vaseline. Clint refused to touch it. There was a wooden box lined with prescription bottles, each with a different person's name; antibiotics, he read on the label. It made sense if Tony kept getting torn, so Clint grabbed the bruise cream and a bottle of amoxicillin and returned to the sitting area.

Tony was as he left him, laying still, his face buried in the cushions. "I need you to sit up a bit," Clint said, pouring a glass of water from the decanter Marietta had left earlier. "In the morning, we'll get you in the shower, man, but for right now, take this and then we'll head over to the bed, okay?"

Tony's rough voice answered him, "Antibiotics?"

"How many cycles of these have you been through?"

"Only one so far. When I first...when I first got here. I tore pretty bad, I think. I got feverish, you know? Think I had the beginnings of an infection. Fucked up, right? That's when he got the antibiotics. Got enough in there to last a few years, huh?"

Clint mumbled, "We won't be here for a few years. Not if I have anything to say about it. C'mere." He slipped his hands behind Tony's back, lightly pulling him up enough that he wouldn't asphyxiate on the pill. "Lean forwards a sec, man, let me just..." He shoved a pillow behind Tony to support his back and winced when Tony let out a small whimper as he put too much pressure on his bottom. "Shit, sorry, dude, can you stand it, just for a few? You need to take this." He held out his hand, the pill resting on his palm.

"Yeah," Tony nodded, moving his hands to take the pill. He shoved it into his mouth quickly, and Clint held the water glass to his lips, he pulled back to let Tony swallow.

"Do you want more?"

"Please," Tony begged, apparently not realizing just how thirsty he was. Clint brought the cup back up and Tony drank greedily. When he tried to pull it away, the genius' hands snapped up to hold it there, a desperate noise emitting from his maltreated throat.

"Tony! Bro, slow down. There's plenty!" Reluctantly, Tony dropped his hands. "Okay, let me get you some more." After refilling the glass, Clint helped Tony's hands hold it. He was weak. The stress put on his body exhausting him to the point he couldn't even handle the weight of water. But Clint knew that Tony needed to at least try to do it himself. If he knew anything about him, it was that. Tony was always so fiercely independent, having to depend so vastly on others must have been driving him berserk. And with everything else on top of that, Clint knew that little things like holding a glass could be small wonders in keeping him just hunky-dory and still in his right mind for when they got out of this (And they were getting the fuck out of this, Clint would swear on anything that they were, he refused to even entertain the idea of not going home.).

After Tony drank a third glass, Clint helped him lay down again. He moved to put the pillow under his hips to help with the soreness, hooking his arm under Tony's knees with one hand and lifting cautiously.

And he froze.

There was a little puddle of come under Tony, and Clint fought back more tears. He had cried enough today; he needed to remain strong.

"Yeah, that happens." A quiet voice reached through the fog and tugged Clint back into the present.

"It's okay, Tones. No sweat." Replacing Tony's legs on the couch, Clint tried to smile at him, "back in a jiff. Quicker than you can say-"

"Jackie Robinson, I know."

The sides of the sink were firm under Clint's hands. He squeezed, briefly wondering if he applied enough pressure, if it would crack. Taking a deep breath, he wetted yet another washcloth and put on his game face.

Cleaning Tony the second time was somehow worse. And Clint knew it wouldn't be the last. He left him again to place a towel, folded in half, on the right side of the bed where he estimated Tony's hips and bottom would be, and placed the bruise salve on the nightstand.

"Okay, bro, time to get up. You can't stay on the couch." Taking Tony's arm in his hand, Clint tried really hard to ignore the gold cuff. "Come on, up!" Tony tried. He really did. But his knees gave out and Clint had to rush to catch him, "Easy, man, easy. I got you." More come had leaked from Tony, and Clint swallowed hard, pushing the anger down. "Let's try that again."

Tony gasped, "Can't," he choked out. "'M'sorry, I can't."

"Hey, it's all good, man," Clint consoled, laying Tony down, "what's the problem?"

"My legs," Tony's face reddened, "they hold them open, they make me," he looked away, "they make me squat and ride them. It's just too much. I can't seem to get used to it."

"You shouldn't fucking have to." Clint bit out, angry on Tony's behalf.

Tony looked at him, his eyes warming. "Thanks."

"Yeah, no problem, sorry, uh, got a temper sometimes, you know?"

"Yeah, me too."

There were times with the team when they pushed too hard on Tony to open up and he snapped back at them; when Steve's orders didn't add up in Tony's head and they ended up in a ridiculous screaming match; when Tony's hands shook with exhaustion too much while trying to solder a piece of his armor that he ended up throwing across the room. That was Tony's temper, and Clint wanted nothing more than to see it at that instant. He wanted Tony to get angry, to be pissed, to look at the situation he was in and just get mad as hell. It was better than the almost placid nature he had while laying on the couch. The acceptance of his current position as pet to a drug lord gnawed at Clint, it worked its way into his body like a disease, festering, forcing Clint to face the reality that Tony may still have some hope, but it was dwindling fast.

Clint stayed quiet, not wanting to bring it up again. Moving Tony's legs once more, he sat on the couch and placed them on his lap.

"What are you doing?" In answer, Clint began massaging the calves. Tony groaned in appreciation. "That works too."

"I can't lift you, bro, I'm not Thor or Steve, I'm sorry. But you can't stay on the couch, it'll be hell on your back, and you're in enough pain as is." Tony might not enjoy the honesty, they had been skirting around the issue all day, but Clint was having more and more trouble keeping his facade up. Each time he broke down, it became harder and harder to get back up. Honesty just seemed better.

"I used to sleep on the couch in the workshop all the time." _Used to._

"That fucking thing was molded to you. It doesn't count." Clint's hands worked up to his thighs, loosening the muscles. "Just need to get you to bed, you'll be okay in the morning."

"Afternoon. S'it's usually by the afternoon."

"Yeah, okay, it's fine, man. Does that feel better?"

Tony nodded, "Yeah, the trembling's gone down."

Clint looked at his face, trying to judge how honest Tony was going to be, "Think you can walk?"

"With help, I think." Tony shrugged one shoulder. "Sam was really strong. He was almost as big as Steve. He was able to carry me. Haven't really tried."

Clint pulled Tony into a sitting position before he stood up and in one fluid movement, tugged Tony up and against his chest. "Put your hands behind my neck," he instructed, waiting as Tony did so, "just take it easy, man, let me support you, one step at a time." It was arduous, but they made it to the bed. "I'm going to lay you down."

"Wait." Tony's eyes had been dry since he was brought back to the room, but his breath was hitching.

"What? What is it?"

"I need...I need you to wipe me again." His face went red, he bowed his head, leaning it on Clint's shoulder. "It's messy."

"I know, man. Don't sweat it. I'm going to turn you, lay on your stomach, I got this." If he faked the confidence, maybe it'd start to exist naturally. Or at least Tony wouldn't notice that Clint was crumbling from the inside.

It took some maneuvering, but Clint managed to get Tony on his front, square on the towel. He ended up back in the bathroom, once again, wetting washcloths and grabbing a fresh towel, before wiping the fluid for third time from Tony's bottom and thighs. He was right when he thought that it was going to get harder.

"I can try to, you know, push it out." And wasn't that fantastic? Tony's voice was tiny, ashamed. Clint's mouth went dry at the implication. Exactly how much was there?

"Does it hurt?"

"Not as much anymore."

"Yeah, okay, that might work." He looked away as Tony did so, staring off towards one of the windows, watching the night sky. The moon was full. The hum of the air conditioner filled his ears and it felt like his brain was buzzing along with it.

"Think I got most of it. But they'll be more, I'm sorry."

"The fuck you apologizing for, it's not your fault, dumbass," Clint took the washcloth and knelt between Tony's legs. "You have nothing to be-" Shit. That was a lot. "You have nothing to be ashamed of."

"Yeah. Sure."

Clint cleaned him for the fourth time that night. This time, he couldn't keep his tears from slipping down his face. When he finished, he carefully changed the towel underneath Tony and washed his hands. When he applied the bruise cream, he kept his touches light, so he wouldn't exacerbate the injuries even more so.

He capped the jar and replaced everything back into the dresser. When he turned back to the bed, Tony was asleep. Clint didn't think twice. He climbed next to him and gathered Tony into his arms, smiling softly as the smaller man curled up against him. But as exhausted as he was, the archer was positive he wasn't getting much sleep that night. Everything kept replaying over and over in his head. The sun was rising by the time his eyes finally slipped shut, and he fell away to a place too dark for dreams.

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**Heavy, I know. Again, I'm a sucker for happy and/or hopeful endings. So bear with the brutality of this fic, please! And I'm on my knees begging for comments because I'm a sucker for praise. Feed me, Seymour!**


	5. Chapter 4

_My wonderful betas and supporters, Lan and Tiff, have assured me that I do a thorough job of explaining through this and the subsequent chapters (I have seven written so far) about why Clint and Tony are behaving as they are in this story. BUT! Me being me, I feel the need to clarify. I'm sorry, ANXIETY IS MAKING ME DO IT!_

_Regardless of life experiences and training, I feel like this is a truly fucked up and twisted situation that they are currently in. Tony was already mostly broken by the time Clint arrived and Barton himself is crumbling from the stress of it. The estate, Davin...everything! is completely abnormal even for two superheroes. They are still human after all._

_Anyway, I go (slowly) more into Clint's mind throughout the next few chapters and hopefully I am showing Tony's current mental state well enough to fully explain. I think anyone, no matter what they've been taught, would react as our boys are in this situation._

_If you have further questions, if I confused you even more, or if you just want to say you understand, please leave a comment, and I will get back to you ASAP! And though I have much of this story planned out, I do take suggestions when it works with my flow! I encourage them! As a writer, I am nothing without the support from my readers. LOVE LOVE!_

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4

It was too few precious hours of sleep before Clint was blinking awake. The sound of the waves, louder than they were the night before, had woken him. He was confused until he saw the windows and balcony doors wide open. Who had done that? The central air had been turned off, the absence of the buzzing sounding bizarre to Clint's ears. But it was fairly cool in the room, despite it being April in the Tropics.

Tony's head was on his chest, his warm breath against Clint's skin reminding him of everything that had happened the previous day. Getting captured, finding Tony, learning about what he had been through the last two months...

Clint pushed the thoughts down and pulled Tony closer, just happy in that moment to have him back in any capacity, even such a damaged one.

"Caretaker, you should not let the Master see you in bed with Beautiful Luna."

Clint jumped, disturbing Tony enough for him to roll over away from him, but remain asleep. "Marietta! I'm sorry, I didn't know."

She cocked her head to the side. "It's okay, Caretaker. I have had talks with the others in the kitchen. We know who you are. He is your friend. You care for him."

"He's my brother." It was the first time Clint had said it out loud. "You can call me Clint."

"Thank you, but no. It is better to stay in the habit of referring to you as Caretaker. Master would not want otherwise." Her accent was thick and her voice calm.

"Be honest with me." Clint said as he stood, realizing he failed to bring the covers up the night before and tugging them over Tony's sleeping body. "Are you here because you want to be?"

"There are no servants here who are, Caretaker." She was setting out breakfast. "It is not all bad," she spoke as she arranged the silverware, "we understand it could be worse." Looking pointedly at Tony, she pursed her lips and went back to what she was doing.

"Yeah, I guess so." There was something to be said about Tony's situation that even the slaves who had probably been there far longer pitied him.

It was uncharacteristic, but Clint leaned down to run his fingers through Tony's hair in an act of comfort. The genius mewed softly, leaning into the comforting touch. It made Clint's heart ache. Sure, Tony was never an affectionate guy, but being here for so long must have touched starved him. At least in the way of sweet touches, and not gang rape.

"Our team is coming. We'll get you all outta here as well."

"That is a kind thought," Marietta spoke, "but as the American saying goes, I will not hold my breath." He liked the way she rolled her R's. There was something comforting in the way she spoke. It was maternal, cozy, like a familiar embrace.

"I guess that's fair." Clint moved to the table, taking in the delicate China and the crystal bowls of fruits. "But they _are_ coming."

She hummed her response. "Master usually comes to check on Beautiful Luna after breakfast. When you see him, bow your head and say: 'Good morning, Master. It is a gracious day in your home. I thank you for allowing me to care for your Beautiful Luna.'"

"Jesus, I should write this down." Marietta hastily made the sign of the cross. "Shit, sorry, I mean, shoot, sorry!" He cringed. "I mean, oh boy, I should write this down." He earned a laugh for his mess up. From her apron, she produced a packet.

"It's a, how do you say, ah, cheat sheet." He took the packet, holding it with both hands. "Do not let Master see, but we have one for all new arrivals. If the servants do not have each other's backs, who does?"

"Thank you," Clint said quietly. "What else happens today? Do you know?"

She placed the covers to the dishes on the cart, "After Master comes, you will be left alone until 7:45, I will be back with your lunch, tea, and supper." Marietta said, adjusting a fork so it sat straight. "When you have earned his trust, he will let you take Beautiful Luna outside."

Clint looked towards the open doors, the crashing of the waves lulling him for a moment. "That would be nice."

"It will always be myself first in here in morning. Do you wish me to wake you so that Master does not see you in his beloved's bed?"

He winced at the word beloved, but supposed Tony couldn't be referred to Beautiful Luna all the time. "Yes, please. Uh, thank you. For all your help, I mean."

"Of course." She paused. "You should wake him. Master will be here around ten."

"Oh, yeah, I'll do that."

"I will see you at noon for lunch, and at two for tea." With that, she exited. Leaving Clint to mull over everything he had learned.

With a sigh, he headed to the bed, loathe to wake Tony when he so obviously needed the rest. "Tones? Hey, Tony. Time to wake up. Breakfast is here." Tony groaned but opened his eyes. They went wide for a second, staring at Clint with wonder, the deep brown an almost honey color in the morning light.

"_It is you_. I thought I dreamed the whole thing."

The smile was forced, but still authentic. "Yeah, it's me. Your favorite Bird Brain."

Tony smiled at that, a true genuine smile that made Clint's chest tighten. How often did Tony have reason to smile anymore?

"Let me help you up." Clint placed the packet Marietta had given him on the nightstand. A glance at the clock told him it was just after eight. He had time to peruse it before Davin came.

Tony held his arms out—it was surreal how used to being cuffed he was—and Clint took his wrists cautiously, pulling him up. "You okay? Sorry, stupid question." The genius groaned but was otherwise able to stand on his own two feet.

"I'm good." Not completely true, but they'd live with that answer for the moment.

Clint stayed slightly behind Tony as they walked to the table, ready to catch him should be waiver and fall, but they made it with no issue, and Tony sat gingerly. Marietta, Clint saw, had placed a pillow on Tony's chair, and, if he was seeing correctly, had cleaned up the mess on the couch as well.

He was suddenly overwhelmed with gratitude for the woman. She had to have had family somewhere. Did they miss her? Did they know where she was?

Of course not, Clint scolded himself, this whole island would have shut down already had anyone known about the captives here.

Breakfast was soft boiled eggs (fucking yuck!), fruit, a slice of ham each, and...was that coffee?!

Clint gulped the hot beverage, shuddering as the steaming liquid hit his throat. "Oh, thank Thor!" He quipped, returning to an old joke between the two. He received another real smile and a laugh in return.

"Only in the mornings," Tony said, "but it's good. Colombian."

"Oh, fuck, that's delicious." He finished the cup and reached for the coffee urn to refill.

Tony expertly cracked open his egg and Clint wasn't sure if he had learned that here or in his rich kid upbringing. "I, uh, just wanted to say thank you. You know. For last night."

Picking up a piece of melon from his own bowl of fruit, the archer furrowed his brows. "Fuck, Tony, you'd do the same for me."

"Yeah. Think we all would." His look subdued. "I know this can't be easy. We can't fight this enemy. We're unarmed, trapped..." he looked away, out through the balcony doors, towards freedom. "I know I've changed. I'm not an idiot."

Clint was quiet for a moment, thinking. At length, he spoke. "You didn't have a choice."

Shaking his head, Tony agreed. "And I don't know if I can go back to...before." he sighed and put down his fork. "I changed after Afghanistan too, wasn't able to go back to what I was. This seems different though."

"It is, man. It's totally different."

"Is it?"

Clint stabbed a strawberry. "Yeah, bro. It is. They," he referred to the Ten Rings, "wanted weapons. Davin just wants to own you." Pausing to shove the berry into his mouth, Clint continued with his mouth full, "He's a fucking lunatic, Tony. You'd be crazy not be changed by it." Swallowing, he continued, "That doesn't mean you can't, like, deal with it. Heal and all that Lifetime shit."

"Eloquent as usual."

Clint snorted. "I've missed your sense of humor."

Tony hugged himself as best he could with his hands cuffed, covering his body in an attempt to unconsciously protect himself. Clint wasn't sure exactly what he had said to set off Tony's defenses in front of him. "I...I mean before you came, I don't actually remember the last time I laughed. Or made a joke. I think I did, at first. When I still thought I had a shot in hell of getting out of here." _He thought he did? What was up with that?_

"You'll be back to driving Cap nuts and making Nat roll her eyes in no time." Clint tried, edging a small grin on his own face. He wanted that hollow expression on Tony's face to go away.

"Yeah, maybe." He looked towards the ocean again, his eyes faraway.

"If it's any consolation, I'm not getting out of here unscathed either." When Tony didn't answer, Clint leaned across the table and touched his arm. "Hey, man...come back."

Tony blinked. "I'm sorry. That's happening more and more. I get kind of...lost, I guess."

"You do what you need to cope." Clint shrugged. "When we get home, I'm going to cope in a barrel of whiskey."

Tony barked a laugh; it was a welcome sound. "Room in that barrel for me?"

"You paying for it?"

"You only love me for my money, you jerk."

"Yeah, yeah, you paying or what?" Clint used the melon he had just forked to gesture.

Tony scoffed and batted his fork away from his face, "Of course I'm paying. Think I'd trust you to buy the good stuff? I don't drink Evan Williams, Barton."

"Beggars can't be choosers," Clint retorted with his mouth full again. "When that's the only booze you got, you drink it and you love it." It felt so natural to banter with Tony, like they were back home, bickering in the kitchen.

"Lucky for you, that's not only booze I have." Tony's face froze and Clint knew the moment was over. "At least not here." He whispered, looking down.

"When we get back, we'll get trashed, man. Just absolutely sloppy. Like two sorority girls on their first weekend out." He was grasping, trying to bring the levity back into the conversation. It was obvious by Tony's eyes that he was failing. "Tony," he started, suddenly not hungry anymore, "they're coming. I know it."

But Tony was lost again, somewhere out at sea, perhaps flying in his suit, going anywhere else but where they were.

10am came quickly and Davin entered the room with the air of someone who was victorious in everything they did, which, Clint supposed, was exactly the way it happened.

Clint and Tony were in the small library, each reading a different book, trying to pass the time. As soon as he was noticed, Tony jumped up and knelt on the floor with his head bowed. Clint was slower to move, not used to being subservient just yet. The cheat sheet Marietta had given him said to stand—not kneel like Tony was—and that bothered him. Was Tony considered lower than he was?

Tony spoke as Davin stood before him. "Good morning, Master. I am delighted to see you on this wonderful morning in your home." Davin stepped forward and caressed Tony's cheek, using his pointer finger to tap under his chin to have him raise his head. Clint wanted to hit him, to growl out, _Don't you touch him!_

"My Beautiful Luna, look at you." He murmured, "My Intelligent Moon, my Italian Star. Your beauty could stop wars." It was hard, but Clint managed to not gag out loud. That would be counterproductive. "Did my beloved sleep well?"

"Yes, Master. I always sleep well after you have loved me so."

Clint was seeing red. How dare this monster make Tony pretend to be grateful after raping him. His fists clenched unconsciously, and he almost missed Davin turning to him.

"Caretaker?" His left eyebrow raised and the archer had to force himself to calm down.

"Good morning, Master. It is a gracious day in your home. I thank you for allowing me to care for your Beautiful Luna."

Davin's smirk screamed triumphant victory.

"Excellent." His voiced oozed. "Now, let's see if you are being properly cared for. We wouldn't want anything to happen to my Beautiful Luna, hmm?"

_Oh no,_ thought Clint, _we wouldn't want anything to happen to him such as forcibly fucking him, right?_ Clint didn't think it was possible to hate someone so profoundly. "No, Master." He said out loud.

Davin continued talking, barely paying Clint any mind. "Come, Beloved, let me check you over." He led Tony to the couch, sitting and throwing his arms over the back. He was lounging, the smug bastard. "Caretaker, stand there," he waved his hand to the other couch and Clint moved to stand in front of it. Tony needed no instruction. He climbed onto Davin's lap, facing him and straddling his legs, his knees pressed into the cushions. The sight of it had Clint repressing vomit.

Davin took his time. He inspected the bruises first, rubbing them in a way that had Tony quietly wincing. "You applied the balm, good." And he ran his fingers along the inner crevice that connected Tony's thigh to his body, looking at his fingers when done. "And he is clean. Excellent."

Clint had wiped Tony down again after breakfast, forgetting at first that the rest of the come had to exit his rectum. He was glad he remembered.

"Open up, my Luna." Tony closed his eyes and opened his mouth, Davin's face took on a predatory gleam. "Eyes open, Beloved." Tony winced slightly but opened his eyes. With a slimy grin, the bastard stuck his middle finger into Tony's mouth. Clint felt his body tensing as Tony dutifully sucked on the digit. Davin's breath came quicker, "My, what you do to me. Open!" He commanded. And Tony's jaw went slack. "Now, let's see here," his hands traveled around Tony's body to press at his anus, slipping inside. The genius' breath hitched as he held in a cry of pain. Davin was moving around in him, searching for something.

_You're the one that tore him, you sick fuck._ Clint's eyes narrowed slightly then widened as Davin let out an angry roar.

"You incompetent fool!" Tony was shoved off of his lap onto the other side of the couch unceremoniously, and Davin was on his feet in an instant. Clint barely had time to react before the backhand across his face sent him reeling into the sofa behind him.

Tony screamed, "No! Don't hurt him!"

Davin lowered his hand; he had been prepared to strike again. "The only thing keeping you alive right now, Caretaker, is the fact that my beloved cares for you as family," he spit out. "Get up, you worthless rodent, get up!" Clint climbed to his feet, his face throbbed, but he resisted putting a hand to it. "You are to use the Vaseline _inside_ him, you pathetic idiot!"

Clint paled. _So that's what it was for._

"If I check him again, and it's not there, I will skin you alive! Do you understand?!"

Heart beating loudly, Clint nodded, too shocked to speak. Tony wasn't kidding about him striking fear into everyone.

Without another word, he turned and sat back on the couch, looking at Tony and pointing to his lap. Clint was going to get whiplash with how fast Davin switched from one mood to another.

At first, the archer thought he just wanted him to kneel there again, but his purpose became clear when Tony submissively addressed him. "Nothing would make me happier than to pleasure you, Master."

Tears prickled Clint's eyes as Tony unzipped Davin's trousers and pulled his cock out. He set to work quickly, using his cuffed hands to jerk him.

Davin's head fell back. "Yes," he moaned. "Yes, my Italian Star." Tony bowed his head, an embarrassed flush spreading along the back of his neck and shoulder blades. Clint knew the shame was because he was there, witnessing it. "Faster," Davin groaned, and Tony complied, tightening his fists and moving quicker. It didn't take long for him to come; it spurt out in sticky streams all over Tony's hands, the milky color contrasting with the bold tan. "Thank you, my Beautiful Luna." Hands finally leaving the back of the couch, Davin cupped Tony's face. "My beloved. So beautiful, so intelligent. And all mine." Tony tucked him away neatly, his eyes downcast.

"Caretaker." Clint jumped at being addressed again. "I told you yesterday that I always get what I want. Did I not?"

His eyes were threatening to spill over, but Clint remained composed. "Yes, Master. You did."

"Keep that in mind." Davin touched Tony's shoulder, and like an off switch, he slid to the floor, still on his knees. "Until tonight, my Beautiful Luna." He cupped his face once more, and left the room.

As soon as the door clicked shut, Clint collapsed. "Jesus Christmas, Tony. Fuck. Shit! Are you okay?" Tony was already standing, racing to the couch and looking at the side of Clint's face that was hit. He didn't touch him, his hands were still covered in come.

"How bad? It's already bruising. Hold on."

"Tony, wait! It's not me I'm worried about!" But his protests fell on deaf ears, and wasn't that ironic? Tony washed his hands quickly and tore through the room, ripping open the medicine drawer and grabbing the bruise cream. He was back at Clint's side in an instant, unscrewing the jar and scooping out some of the balm. "No! Save that for you!"

"Believe me, he'll buy more." Tony said shakily, tilting Clint's face and gently rubbing the cream in.

"Tones," Clint tried weakly, but Tony ignored him until he was done. Only then did he sit back and still himself.

"I'm so sorry. I forgot. I should have told you!"

"Would you stop blaming yourself!" Clint snapped. Tony jolted and the archer visibly cringed. "Fuck, I'm sorry. I'm just, shit, Tony. I'm not worried about me, man. I've had worse."

"You didn't deserve it."

_Neither did you, _hung in the air around them.

Lunch and tea came and went in a similar fashion, Clint remembering his lines this time. They had passed the time between Davin leaving and Marietta returning by playing one of the old board games tucked under the coffee table. _Parcheesi_. And boy did that make Clint feel old.

When they finished eating another grossly healthy meal, Clint cleaned the game up, slyly watching Tony as he did so, he was loath to admit it, but already he didn't like when Tony wasn't in his direct line of sight.

The genius had taken another book from the shelf, but instead of sitting in the squishy armchairs in the library, he sat on the floor, leaning against Clint's leg as he cleaned up the game.

"What are you reading?" He asked softly. Tony showed him the cover. "_To Engineer is Human: The Roll of Failure in Successful Design_," Clint read aloud. Trying to elicit a laugh out of Tony, he threw his head back and let out a loud, drawn out snore. "Yawn!"

It worked. Tony laughed, "You ass!" And slapped his leg with his book. "I'll have you know, it's very interesting."

"And you probably know all of it already."

"Hush, you, I'm reading." The sound of snoring earned Clint a second whack with the book.

"There's way too many smart people books over there and like three novels I might actually finish. Where's the stuff for us common folk?"

Tony waved his hand, not looking up from the pages, "Genius, remember?"

"Yeah, yeah, and you never let me forget it." Dropping the last piece into the box, Clint closed it and slipped the board-game back under the table. "What's with all the books anyway? I thought he only wanted you for your body?" He cringed, damn his word vomit! But Tony either didn't notice or was beyond caring.

"You heard him, I'm his _'Intelligent Moon.'_" Clint didn't actually see him roll his eyes, but if he would have bet money on it, he knew he'd be a few bucks richer. "He stocked the shelves with what he thought were books a genius would love."

"They're not?" Clint asked, gesturing to the hardcover still in Tony's hands.

"Well," Tony said, dipping his head back to look up at Clint. His clean shaven face was still a bit jarring to see. "You said it. I already know it all. But there's not much to do around here...during the day anyway."

"Yeah, man, I guess." Dropping back against the cushions, Clint saw Tony's mood souring quickly. They hadn't yet breached the topic of what had happened that morning, and Clint was learning that Tony's mood ebbed and flowed like the ocean outside because of what was happening. Not that he could blame him, Tony was never exactly stable, none of them were really, they had all been through too much in their lives to not be a little broken. But this whole situation with Davin had shattered any semblance of balance Tony may have had.

Clint wished he could make it better. He wanted to take Tony away from the estate, to anywhere really, just to stop him from _hurting_ all the damn time. It hadn't even been a full twenty-four hours yet and the archer knew that the Tony Stark he had known was gone. It stung horrendously, though that didn't change how much Clint loved him. They had gone from strangers to teammates to friends to family in the course of a year, and Clint was ashamed that he had never told the older man just how much he respected and admired him.

The enigma that was Tony Stark was wrapped up in tabloid covers spanning decades, and not a single one got the whole truth. Clint learned that the hard way. The team had been slowly unwrapping his layers and breaking through his walls when he was taken, but they had gotten through enough to learn that the brilliant engineer oftentimes showcased as a philandering, spoiled, party boy was anything but. He was kind with a wicked sense of humor, compassionate as he was intelligent, and loyal to a fault—to those he called family anyway. He was willing to sacrifice his own life for the greater good and was filled with so much love that he tried (in vain) to hide away that it sometimes burst out of him in the most unusual ways. Safer uniforms, better weapons, all things to keep those he cared for protected; team dinners and movie nights; opening his home to them when he valued his privacy; and an unexpectedly steadfast ear to listen when things got a little too rough in their lives.

Clint was sure none of that would change. Even Russell Davin couldn't affect Tony enough to make him a bad person. That wasn't what worried him. It was the hollow, haunted looks that concerned him; that when they returned home, Tony would shut himself in. Trust even less than he did, and exist only as a shell: skin and bones and a broken mind. He would still care for his friends, but would he care for himself? Would he retreat into his work and live—frightened!—the rest of his life, always looking over his shoulder and waiting for Davin to reappear and take him away?

Would he be even more afraid of touch than he was before he was abducted?

This Tony craved contact. Kind touches, safety. But living for two months with only the painful, forced physical contact from Davin and his three bastards was probably what made him that way. Tony used to shy from any form of palpable affection. He turned from hugs, shrugged off comforting hands, and straight out avoided having anything handed to him for fear of touching another person. But one look at the broken man on the floor by his feet, leaning into his leg confirmed what Clint already knew: Tony needed to feel like there was still love and kindness in the world when he had been so devoid of it for so long.

And Clint Barton—archer, assassin, spy, Avenger—could not deny him that.

"Hey." He bumped Tony's shoulder with his leg, making a split-second decision, "C'mere."

Tony looked up from his book, "Huh?"

"I said, dingleberry, come. Here."

"Did you just call me a dingleberry?"

Clint huffed a laugh, "Just...fucking come here, you idiot."

Tony narrowed his eyes, but his smile remained. "Genius, remember?" He stood, placing his book on the coffee table, and sitting on the couch next to Clint.

"Oh, shut up," the archer said affectionately. And he pulled Tony close to him, swinging his legs over his lap and just held him. Tony tensed for a moment before melting into the touch, moving into a better position and tucking his head under Clint's chin. He crooked his arms against himself, and turned into Clint's body, curling up with a pleased sigh.

For his part, Clint closed his eyes and wrapped his arms around him tighter, just happy to hold him and show him that not all touch was bad, that there was still good left in this world, and despite months of torment, Tony still deserved love and comfort from someone who actually cared.

They were content to stay just like that, fading in and out of sleep and always glad to feel to the other near, not wanting to move until Marietta came in with dinner, because they knew, through the haze of temporary warmth, that 7:45 would come soon enough, and Tony would be cold again.

* * *

**I hope you've enjoyed this bit! The next chapter should be out Friday or Saturday at the latest.**


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